The Roth Journals

I am so providential
I do not have to cry.
When the brow first furrow
The light rains commence.
Then comes the sideways rains
Praise, praise rifts the chants.
Who not know your suffering saves.
Love is left bound.
Girded like a small slave child.
As the wind moves to the with a hailing wail
Picking up speed of a misplaced gale
Prayer that tears not suffer a soul
Praise has said our crops be fed.